Bulimic sky (inspired by lots of people)

The holograph leaked affairs across a wounded page, in some ways like Henna art on a scarred palm. And all the illusions of birds armed with cloudless skies could make this night speak, with heavy breath. A weary eye on the morning. Of all the sonographs burst into LSD, this was twelve windows and a messiah that dealt in no more than magic;shining brightly what remnants of a clenched fist brought us, to occur as reflections of healing. And this I am told-no this- this the sky at night. This is a bird song and these are stones thrown by the oppressed. These are shots fired by the oppressors. These are the wounded, with injuries in the back. These are tomorrow's lies. What scars to prove. A man is driven to the edge. What derivative could supply six clocks- a mask and a silence that is to be kept. A silence that masks the night and claims the birds [to be] wingless. An unfortunate song is all that is reoccurring-a plateau of lifelines left stranded by deadlines-far-far into the horizon; subtle lips that feed upon the breast of this galaxy_An infant nourished on what is the milky way. Dead end intentions collapse upon the fertile grasp that guides stars into their birthing place. Her name showers the cosmos and any shadow that remains seated- by any means arbitrary to a pendulum that rotates existence exactly clockwise- is haunted/ any sorrow that collides with the sun these day, I'm afraid to untie- unite for the night is yours?